Her Not So Funny Face
by Klee Wyck
Summary: We open the cocoon but it is not a butterfly that emerges. It is a bird of paradise. GSR. Season 5, pre Committed. Sequel to Play It Again, Gil.


**Title:** Her (Not So) Funny Face  
**Author:** Klee Wyck**  
Pairing:** GSR  
**Spoilers:** Season 5, pre-_Committed_.  
**Rating:** T  
**Disclaimer:** These people are not mine. And they're not people. They're _fictional characters_. I think.  
**Summary:** We open the cocoon but it is not a butterfly that emerges. It is a bird of paradise.

Sequel to _Play It Again, Gil_.

* * *

A/N: I couldn't resist. One of my favourite movies and I just couldn't resist. The _best_ lines are from the film, of course.

* * *

_Jo Stockton: I never want to go home. I love Paris! I love these clothes and the little church. And I love you._

_Dick Avery: What did you say?_

_Jo Stockton: I love Paris._

_ Funny Face_

* * *

I love your funny face  
Your sunny, funny face.  
For you're a cutie  
With more than beauty  
You've got a lot of  
per-son-a-li-tee for me.

* * *

She didn't go home after all, of course.

She definitely thought about it, though, and she got as far as the front door, hand on the knob, ready to slip out into the night and leave him behind, all sloshed and sweetly rambling.

_You're pretty drunk._

_You're just pretty._

She snorted softly in the darkness, grinning, remembering. Well, he certainly was a charming drunk, if nothing else. She leaned her forehead against the smooth solidity of the door, took a deep breath, and another.

Okay.

I'll stay. I'll stay, just to make sure he's all right, you know? Just to make sure he doesn't puke and choke on his puke or anything.

Not because I _want_ to, or anything.

Yeah.

Okay.

Now what?

She slid her shoes off, wiggled her cramped, sweaty toes in relief (how she hated high heels, God, give her a pair of big, shit-kicking boots _any day)_, and wandered back though the shadowed townhouse. She could hear him, snoring lightly, up in the bedroom and she smiled. She allowed herself to imagine, just for a moment, slipping into bed behind him, laying her head on the pillow next to his, sliding her arms around his chest, burrowing her face into his back, pressing her lips just _there_—

Yeah.

Okay.

She stood in front of one of the butterfly cases, ran her fingers lightly over her forehead, remembering his lips just _there_, fleetingly, not so long ago.

Had he meant to do that, or was it just another little accident? A happy little accident, but an accident nonetheless. A chance meeting of lips and skin? Maybe he'd just bumped into her, and he'd puckered up at the last minute, sort of a knee jerk, reflex movement, nothing more.

No, she remembered with sudden, sweet clarity. No. He'd put his hands on her shoulders, very deliberately, and _pulled_ her to him. _Then_ he had kissed her. Deliberately. That was how it had happened.

That was her story and she was sticking to it.

* * *

She poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher in his fridge (what the _hell_ is in _that_ container?), shuddered, and started snooping.

Wandering, she meant. _Wandering_.

Not snooping.

Books. More books. Magazines. Music. Cases and cases of bugs and butterflies, pinned, forever stilled in movement, in mid-flight.

Then, photographs.

Photographs, 20 at least. Mounted, framed, hung in perfectly straight lines on the walls down the hallway.

She paused in front of these, gliding between them like a slight, blue ghost, one after another. Photos, black and white, most of them, mainly of Paris, it seemed. Paris. Architecture, lines and curves, angling and spiraling this way and that, a small church, the Arc de Triomphe, and people, people moving, blurred, a girl in a beret, her lovely face averted. Sara wondered who she was, wondered if Grissom had kissed her. Silly. She moved closer then, nose millimeters away from the glass, trying to somehow _will_ herself into those slightly grainy, otherworldly scenes.

I'd like to be there right now, she thought. What I wouldn't give.

_Paris_.

Me, looking utterly glamorous, trench coat belted just so, chignon arranged just so, oversized sunglasses, traipsing through Paris, face averted from the handsome man with the camera. Café au lait, baguettes, the Eiffel Tower. Ooh la la.

Shit.

She snorted, quietly.

She sighed, wandered further, further. She found his study, or what she assumed was his study, crammed floor to ceiling with books, books that weighed, at least some of them, more than her leg she would bet, and a computer, more butterflies, a photo of her.

What the—?

_Shit_.

Yep. There she was, black and white, tiny, framed, next to his laptop. It was…old, she guessed, two, maybe three years, snapped at a crime scene. Completely unflattering, of course. She was crouching, squinting oh-so-seriously at something at her feet, camera held aloft in her right hand, hair pulled back haphazardly in a ponytail.

It didn't even _look_ like her, really, and she resisted the impulse to snatch it away, shove it in her purse and take it home.

Still, it was her, it was, no debating that.

Lovely.

Then it hit her like a ton of proverbial bricks, once she worked past her vanity issues.

Grissom had a framed photo of her sitting beside his laptop.

Well.

She moved away quickly, trying to ignore her quickening pulse, her slightly sweaty palms, the ineffable glee that threatened to bust her wide open.

More books, more butterflies, more bugs.

A camera.

A camera, but not a work-issue camera. A manual camera, old, Nikon, perhaps from school?

She picked it up, hefted its impressive weight in her hands. Heavy. She peered through the viewfinder, focused on the image of her on his desk.

She looked oh so far away, a different girl, a different time.

_Snap_.

She lowered the camera, caressed its worn, scarred case, imagined his large, capable hands doing the same as he took a photo of butterflies or a church or a girl in Paris.

As he took a photo of _her_.

* * *

About an hour after he'd fallen asleep (passed out), she realized she was feeling chilly. She rubbed her arms absently as she climbed the stairs to the second floor, where the snores became louder, more ragged.

She hovered in his bedroom doorway for a moment, watching his still form under the blankets. He lay on his side, arms stretched across the empty expanse, fingers curled but relaxed.

She tried to imagine sharing a bed with him, tried to imagine her body filling up that empty expanse.

_Good night, Grissom._

_Good night, Sara._

She crept into the room, toes curling against the cool, wooden floor, goose bumps rippling her pale, freckled skin.

She opened the closet door, peered inside, tried to imagine her clothes taking up half the space, her shoes scattered across half the floor.

She scanned the top shelf for a sweater, but chose instead a long-sleeve dress shirt, pale blue. She pulled it on, folded it across herself, shivering slightly in the chilly, air-conditioned room.

She lowered her head, put her nose to the collar.

It smelled, of course, like him. Because it was his shirt. And she was wearing it, like she was his girlfriend or something.

She tried to imagine being his girlfriend.

Or something.

* * *

There was a chair in the corner of his room. A large, brown, overstuffed, chair.

It looked decidedly…welcoming.

She sank into it at last, threw her legs over one arm, half expecting him to awake at any minute, or vomit at any minute.

He slept on.

She shifted and stretched, and shifted again, trying to get comfortable.

I really should just go home, she told herself. He won't care. Go _home_. You don't belong here. Get into bed, sleep for a few hours. Get up. Eat, go for a run, shower, go back to work.

He won't care.

He probably won't even _remember_.

But she stayed, because she was already here and here was better than there, at least for now.

She shifted and stretched for the last time, somehow managed to make it all work, lay her head on the armrest, closed her eyes.

She opened them once more, just to look at him while he slept on. She wondered if he was dreaming, and if so, what about.

Or, who about.

She closed her eyes.

She slept.

* * *

He was awake.

He was groaning.

She perched on the edge of his bed, hair tousled, hands pulled up into the sleeves of his shirt. When she determined he wasn't going back to sleep, she turned on the reading light.

He squinted, shaded his eyes, looked at her in both surprise and delight.

"Sara?"

"Uh huh."

"What are you doing here?"

She smiled, resisted the urge to put her hand on his face.

"Babysitting."

"Oh." He rubbed at his temples gingerly. Understanding and remembrance dawned on his face. "Well, that would explain the headache, then."

"I bet."

He looked at her.

"I was dreaming about you."

She blushed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She waited for him to continue. He didn't. He sighed.

"Last night you were…you were…"

"On a date."

"Right." He closed his eyes and smiled faintly. "The animal loving meat loathing guy."

"Mark."

"Ah."

She cleared her throat.

"How are you feeling? Can I get you anything?"

_You?_ he thought. _In bed? With me?_

"A gallon of water?" he said.

She _did_ touch him them, two fingers stroking the side of his face just once, from the top of his cheekbone to the bottom of his chin, and his eyes shot open, bloodshot but oh so aware. She pulled her hand away, clutched it in her lap.

_Stay_, she ordered.

"I'll see what I can do."

* * *

Later, when she saw that he was pretty much past the imminent puking stage, she told him she'd found his camera.

They were sitting in the living room, sipping at strong, bitter coffee. Harsh light attempted to force its way in and around the drawn blinds, but so far it wasn't making much progress. It puddled at Sara's bare feet and she could almost feel its naked warmth licking at her toes.

It was past noon.

He nodded and smiled.

"I used to be a bit of a shutterbug," he said, "before it became a work requirement."

"Really?"

He nodded again. "I used to love taking photos, just for the sake of capturing things… _live_ things on film. Insects, flowers, still life, mainly."

"Oh," she said.

He cleared his throat. "And people, once in awhile."

"Oh," she said again.

He rose suddenly, padded down the long hallway. She knew exactly where he was going and what he was getting.

He returned with the camera.

He held up the Nikon, pointed the black, empty eye of the lens at her face. She blushed furiously, looked anywhere but at him.

"Ugh," she said, bringing the mug to her mouth and making a face.

"What?" he said, laughing a little. "Let me take your picture."

"I don't think so," she said.

"Hey," he said.

"What?"

"You're wearing my shirt," he said suddenly, seriously.

"Yeah. I was cold, earlier." She took a big, hot gulp, scalding her throat. "Is that okay?"

He nodded.

"Yeah. That's okay." He swallowed.

He held up the camera again. She looked away again.

"Don't. I'm a mess."

He laughed.

"You're not. When I'm done, you'll look like..." Grissom peered at her from behind the camera. "What do you call beautiful? A tree. You'll look like a tree."

She laughed, loud.

"Excellent," she said, shaking her head. "A tree. Perfect."

"Well, they _are_ beautiful."

He focused on her again.

"Take the picture! Take the picture!" she said suddenly, staring right at him, vulnerable, defiant, frustrated, exposed.

Beautiful.

_Snap_.

He took the picture.

"Enough, all right?" she said quietly, smirking a little.

"Why?"

"I hate having my picture taken. _Hate_ it."

"Why?" he said again.

She shrugged, but something in her posture, in her sad, sad eyes, told him exactly why.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you?"

"Told me what?"

(Fourth foster-sister, Melanie something-or-other, braying loudly, dismissively, in the communal bathroom, not knowing, or maybe knowing perfectly well, that Sara was standing in the doorway behind her: _I think her face is perfectly funny_. )

He looked at her, mouth slightly agape. She thought she could actually _see_ sweat breaking out along his hairline. She sighed.

"I have no illusions about my looks. I think my face is funny," she said and she meant it.

He looked down, shook his head in silent, desperate disagreement.

"What you call funny, I call interesting," he said quietly, and he meant it.

She grinned, feeling a blush rise along the sides of her neck.

She averted her face but he could still see her.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" she teased.

He looked up, looked into her eyes directly, suddenly very, very serious.

"Yes."

* * *

"You really didn't have to," she said for the third time.

"It's the least I could do," he said, putting a plate in front of her. Very late lunch. Meatless spaghetti, garlic bread, steamed peas.

"It looks wonderful," she said, smiling outright. He hesitated.

"Do you…do you want some wine?"

She thought of sharing a glass or two of wine with Grissom before shift started and how, perhaps, it was unethical and audacious and not conducive to good work practices.

"I'd love some," she said.

"Me, too," he said, grabbing a bottle.

She realized suddenly how hungry she was.

* * *

I was taught that I ought  
not expose my inner senses.  
Had no plan for man;  
I was full of self-defences.  
Now I feel that I really  
should face the consequences.  
My philosophic search  
has left me in the lurch.

I could cry salty tears.  
Where have I been  
all these years?  
Is it fun?  
Or should I run?  
How long has this been going on?+

* * *

He had music playing as they ate and as he cleared the plates away she actually paid attention to it, for the first time.

"What is that?" she asked a glass and a half later.

A glass and a half later he shrugged. "Don't know. The radio. Background music," he said, smiling a little sheepishly.

She wiped her mouth, stretched her legs under the table. The music was decidedly rhythmic, decidedly…danceable.

"Do you…want to dance?" she said before she could change her mind.

He stopped, looked at her. "Pardon?"

"We think freely here. If a girl wants to dance with a man, she asks him," she replied.

_No. More. Wine,_ she told herself.

He looked like he was going to come up with some argument about protocol or sexual harassment lawsuits, but then he just shrugged and said yes, and then he took her hand and slid one arm around her waist the they danced together for awhile around the coffee table in his living room.

She rested her hand on his shoulder, felt her other hand enveloped in his, fingers entwining and he pulled her closer, closer, gently, gently, until their chests touched and she dared rest her head, for just a moment, on his shoulder.

He smelled like his shirt, all lemony and clean. He smelled sweet.

And a little bit pukey.

The song ended.

"I have to…go home, now," she said, pulling away. "We have to be at work in…two hours, and I need to shower and…stuff."

He lowered his hands and nodded.

"Me, too."

"Okay." She slowly, slowly removed his shirt from her body, pulled it from her arms, passed it to him reluctantly. "Thanks, for this."

He wanted to tell her to keep it, but realized how that would sound. Plus, he didn't want her to keep it, really. He didn't want her to wash it.

_He_ wanted to keep it. Forever.

"You're welcome," he said.

"Glad you're feeling better," she said, moving to the front door.

"I am, pretty much. Thank you. For everything."

"Okay."

"See you. At work."

"Okay."

_I never want to go home_, she thought suddenly as she worked her feet into her too-tight shoes. She grimaced a little as she adjusted them. _I love this townhouse! I love these clothes and the photo of the little church. And I love—_

"What did you say?" Grissom said watching from the doorway.

She turned, panicked, wide-eyed.

"I love your place. It's great."

"Oh." He smiled. "Thank you." He stepped into the foyer. "I mean, I guess it's a bit big for just one person, but I've done okay. I seem to have filled it up all right."

"Those photos…you took them?"

"Which ones?"

She took his hand then, brazenly, led him down the darkened hallway to the images that would now forever haunt her dreams. They stopped halfway, in front of the photo of the girl, their hands still clasped.

He nodded in the quiet. "My Mom's graduation present. I chose France, for some reason. I don't know why. I had this notion at the time that I'd meet some glamorous Parisian girl, have an illicit affair."

"And?" she said, daring to look at his profile. He was staring at the photo, lost in thought.

"And…I took a lot of lovely photos."

She smiled.

"You did."

"Someday I'll take you there," he said absently. She looked at him but he was looking at the photo, smiling so faintly he was almost not smiling at all.

"All right," she said. He turned to her.

"All right." He did smile then. She smiled back.

She'd agreed to go to Paris.

She could hardly wait.

* * *

"Hey Boss Man," Greg shouted, clapped his hand on Grissom's shoulder. "How's it hanging?"

Grissom shuddered, gripped his head, closed his eyes, grimaced. Sara bit back a smile.

"It's hanging…just fine," he said. Catherine snickered. Greg and Nick slapped hands.

"Wicked storm out there," Nick said, as lightning flickered and far off, thunder rumbled.

"Only supposed to get worse," said Warrick.

Grissom cleared his throat.

"We…we have a murder at the Desert State Mental Hospital. Appears one of the inmates has killed his roommate."

Greg raised his eyebrows at Sara. "Oooh. Inmates. Crazy, committed inmates."

Grissom scowled at him.

"Sara."

She looked up. He looked at her.

_What you call funny, I call interesting._

_And beautiful._

"You're with me."

* * *

_Fin_

Funny Face and +How Long Has This Been Going On, words and music by George and Ira Gershwin


End file.
